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Another nudge, this time earning an immediate response. My toes bump the base of the window, as I'm suddenly void of fear. I press my forehead to the cool glass and gaze straight down, catching glimpses of the windows below, floor after floor after floor, all reflecting off the setting sun like scattered jewels.
I blink, and they only shine brighter.
"That's it," the voice encourages deeply, as warmth envelops my backside. A strong presence I can't help but sink into, when a careful yet demanding touch grabs my nape, applying noticeable pressure. "You like losing control, don't you?" My legs quiver like molten putty as my eyelids fall. "Yeah, you do. That's my good girl."
I gasp.
As if zapped by a live wire, I jolt backward, only to smack into something hard and immobile. My heart ricochets in fear, as I'm suddenly a bird caught without its wings a hundred stories up, staring down the fall.
Breathe... Breathe. You're on even ground. It's just a window. Sturdy, tempered glass, meant for such heights. And look at that, it even comes with two large hands to keep you safe.
Wait, what?
I whirl on my heels, finding myself caged between Hayden's arms. His palms press flat against the glass on either side of my head, even though the shadow of his touch still sends goosebumps along my nape. With a smirk, his eyes rake down my body, leisurely, in a way that makes me feel naked—but just for him.
"You know, Jules, if seeing a stripper pole gets you so worked up, you should think about giving it a spin or two sometime." He winks. "But only if I can watch, of course."
Embarrassment burns my cheeks, setting my whole body aflame. Unable to retort or explain my actions or even look him in the eye, I spring forward, slipping under his arm.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, dollface. It's great exercise!" His laughter bounces through the air as I flee down the hall, unsure of where I'm headed, but confident my legs won't rest until Hayden Kingston and his twisted games are far, far behind me.
THIRTEEN
JULIANA
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I mumble to myself, ripping the lid off the next bin stuffed with clothes. "Stupid stripper pole..."
Grunting, I heave a large pile of shirts with the hangers still on them, barely able to wrap my arms around the stack. I aim for my closet, passing under the sparkly sphere attached to the ceiling, grumbling some more. "Stupid disco ball nonsense... said it's an expensive light fixture... no way of removing it..." Grumble, grumble, grumble.
When I enter the closet, I'm so determined to stay grumpy, I don't stop and stare like the last ten times. Is it the nicest—and largest—closet I've ever seen? With everything a girl would ever dream of? Drawers that stretch to the ceiling. More clothing racks than I can count. Display cases with moody, accent lighting for purses, bags, and jewelry. A marble center island beside a chaise lounge beneath a crystal chandelier...
Sure. It has all those things. But it's also a couple of doors down from a womanizing pig.
A pig you sure seem eager to please, a voice interjects inside my head, laughing snarkily.
I huff an irritated breath, slamming the hangers next to the rest of my clothes. My entire wardrobe doesn't fill one-tenth of the space, not to mention how unusual my casual attire looks surrounded by such luxury. Most notably my apron.
On my way back to the boxes, I don't acknowledge the vastness of my new room or the surrealness of my life or gape at the spectacular views, even though the walls of my corner room are a solid sheet of glass. I only give the support beam that's smack dab in the center of everything the stink-eye, as if it's some mean girl I'm beefing with in high school.
When Hayden's comment replays in my mind, I can't help but scoff aloud with an annoyed, high-pitched voice. "You should think about giving it a spin or two sometime—blegh!" My face screws up like I bit a sizable chunk off a lemon, unsure of who it is I'm more mad at, him or myself.
Knowing the answer, I mumble, "Stupid hormones..." With a sigh, I plop down, criss-cross on the floor beside the final box. "They're always getting me into stupid situations with Mr. Wrong..."
I rip off the lid, only for my anger to subside when I see what lies on top, covered in protective paper. Unwrapping the layers, I pull out the lousiest flower vase Columbia University's pottery club had probably ever seen in its history.
Handcrafted by yours truly.
Lacking any semblance of symmetry, the vase sports uneven bumps and ridges, two mismatched handles, and streaky garnish over a vomit yellowish-green color. Overall, it's similar to a toddler's first attempt at building a sandcastle, except it's not their first time. But their tenth. Maybe even their thirtieth...
Unraveling another, I behold in my hands a vase on a whole other caliber. Polar opposite in every way. Elegant, smooth, and pearly white. Worthy of a mantel place inside some Victorian chateau, where it can boast its graceful curves, having been crafted by—at the time—a second-year Fine Arts student with a focus on sculpting.
My sister from another mister, Mei.
Well, my adopted sister is more accurate. As in, she adopted me, sophomore year of college in a shared elective class, vowing she was to be my new best friend and I had no choice in the matter. To anyone else, that may sound like strange behavior, but not for socially fearless, hyper-extroverted Mei.
Why she chose me, of all people—the girl with straight As, zero social life, and an obsessive habit of programming her new strange game during lecture—I have no idea. But she sure made it her mission to push me out of my comfort zone, because she immediately began signing us up for workout classes, artsy clubs like pottery and photography, school dances, dragging me to bars, and even tried convincing me to rush her sorority house and go to frat parties.
The latter two she never actually pulled off, maybe because students in video game design and Greek life are like oil and water, but that's not from a lack of her trying. Like I said, the girl's got a vendetta against my V-card.
